


Coyote Song

by project_canary



Series: Take Me Home [6]
Category: Sideshow - Fandom
Genre: Gen, Western AU, basically a red dead au, the gangs all here!, theyre all cowboys
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-16
Updated: 2019-12-16
Packaged: 2021-02-26 08:00:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,344
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21820066
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/project_canary/pseuds/project_canary
Summary: Death is all too common in the West, and the folks that have settled out here have accepted its inevitability.
Series: Take Me Home [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1572283





	Coyote Song

**Author's Note:**

> Ok, this one was based on a uh, strange song --> https://www.instagram.com/p/B4nxDdOnqSy
> 
> AND a beautiful piece of art! --> https://antcircus.tumblr.com/post/188921264375/cowboys-from-the-stream-and-also-patrick-au

The desert seems to have no trouble taking lives, and the sand seems to be an infinite graveyard for those unlucky enough to be claimed by the wild. Animal bones wash out of the dust like seashells at the ocean, people go missing in the rocky foothills of the mountains and the town never goes looking because they know. Whole towns disappear into the blistering sun and no one can ever be certain if the town was ever there in the first place. But it seems as though you’re never really gone. Ghosts are abundant here, and despite the fierce rationality of most residents, there is no denying the plethora of superstitions. Hang a horseshoe for good luck, don’t change a horse’s name unless you want misfortune, and never wear a dead man’s boots, lest he haunt you for the rest of your life.

The saloon was a cool relief against the heat of the beating noon sun, and the barkeep was glad for the business. He barely raised his head as three strangers ambled through the double swing doors. Light streamed in behind them, and the man at the front tipped his hat at the barkeeper. The white and black at his collar designated his profession, and as he hung his hat other regulars around the saloon glanced but made no further moves, their conversations quieting slightly. The saloon pianist still was playing softly in the corner, and the women circling the upper level of the bar looked down at the scene like vultures. The two men behind the priest dusted off before heading towards the bar. The barkeep filled a glass, sliding it down to one of the patrons as they reached the bar.

The first wore a scowl, his face almost as red as his hair from the sun, the dust still coating his overalls in a yellow glow. He sat at one of the stools, his boots clinking against the wood.

“Whiskey,” He nodded at the bartender, and the bartender filled the order, sliding the glass to the man.

The priest stood close to the man in overalls, and as he reached up to the man’s shoulder, the barkeep noticed the gun he had under his jacket. Took note, filed it under information that could be useful. Everyone here had a gun, but the barkeep liked to keep stock of those that he considered…volatile. The priest seemed calm, but there was a storm of swirling intensity that seemed to follow in his path.

“For you, Father?” The barkeep asked, and the priest smiled.

“I’ll take the same.” The bartender went to work on the priest’s drink as another patron entered in a flourish. Slamming the doors open with no regard to the atmosphere of the interior.

“Your horse is unbelievable Tomato!” The man huffed, stomping over to the man in overalls, his yellow and red poncho flowing behind him. “That thing almost killed me.”

“You’re just pushy,” Tomato didn’t make eye contact, sipping his drink as the newcomer stood off to his side, his dark hair almost vibrating with energy. “She wouldn’t hurt a fly.”

“She seems to have hurt a Buck,” the last stranger laughed, and the poncho wearer stuck out his tongue, wandering from the bar. The bartender pushed the priest’s glass across the bar and turned to the third man, who wrinkled his face in disgust at his two companion’s drinks.

“Gross, can I have a water?” Before the barkeep could answer, the priest intervened.

“Bed,” He whispered his name just loud enough for the barkeep to hear. “Don’t fucking drink water.” The one they called Buck had found his way to the piano, and had shed his poncho, dancing along to the tunes.

“Fine, a _milk_ please.” The bartender hid his disgust as he tried to remember if they even had milk in the bar when one of the locals turned to face the strangers.

“Milk?” The piano stopped playing, and the barkeep watched Buck toss the man a coin and sit himself in front of the keys, stretching his fingers. A smile only visible to the barkeep stretched across Bed’s face as he lowered the brim of his white hat and turned to face the man who had questioned his order. As Bed turned, the man’s face dropped, shock and horror spreading across his features.

“Yeah, milk. Got a problem with that?” The man didn’t seem to hear Bed’s answer, and the whole saloon now seemed to be focused on the pair. The bartender paused his cleaning, slowly reaching his hand under the bar, his fingers wrapping around the pistol there, feeling the cold metal. He didn’t get to fire the gun. Instead, he felt his arms go cold, a hole in his forehead where a hole shouldn't be.

“Let’s set some ground rules here,” Criken almost laughed, his gun still smoking. It’s a shame he had to shoot the bartender, it was getting harder to find someone to make a good drink these days. “We don’t want any more trouble than we came for. So if you let us…” The man that Bed had been talking to drew his gun and this time it was Bed that fired, the man barely touching his holster before he fell backwards over his chair and chaos erupted across the bar.

Buck immediately began to play a jaunty tune, singing his own lyrics as he went along.

“Coyote, I don’t trust your eyes. You are lookin’ at me like I’m made of apple pies,” he sang, the piano cruising along in a ragtag ditty. Tomato chugged the rest of his whiskey before slamming his glass on another man’s head and then picking up his chair and tossing it across the bar. Bed slugged another man across the face, shaking his hand in pain as he glanced over at Criken.

“A little help?” Bed gestured as someone else charged him and he grabbed an empty bottle, smashing it over the person’s head before turning and thrusting the jagged glass into someone else. Criken shrugged, sidestepping as Tomato threw someone over the bar and ducking to avoid a thrown bottle. Bed rolled his eyes before continuing his fight.

It didn’t take long for the pair to clean out the place, the living fleeing for the streets, the dead and unconscious littering the bloody saloon. Bed stepped over a body as he approached the first man he shot, grunting with strain as he pulled the man’s boots off.

“They didn’t even fit him,” Bed complained as he retrieved the white leather cowboy boots, chucking the boots he was wearing off to the side, admiring his new pair. “Asshole.” Tomato righted one of the stools and poured himself another drink.

“They look as good as the last time you wore them Bed,” Tomato snarked as he threw back the shot, shaking his head at the burn. Tomato tapped the glass, rooting in his pocket for something and coming up with a few coins, leaving them on the counter. “Let’s hit the road before this sheriff decides to come after us.”

“Again,” Buck added, joined the three at the bar, sliding his poncho back on. Criken grabbed his hat from the hook as they all headed out of the saloon.

“When was the last time?” He laughed as they exited, the sun briefly blinding him.

“Don’t you remember?” Bed called as he jumped onto his horse, shading his eyes as he peered down the street.

“HEY!” A voice called and all of them spun to see a familiar face.

“Lawlman!” Criken yelled happily with a wave, but Lawl was more than a little angry.

“You sure as hell better not be causin’ trouble!” He shook his fist, and the other three quickly mounted their horses as well, watching Lawl struggle to get his untied.

“Guess it’s a story for some other time,” Bed giggled as he galloped away, and Criken groaned.

“No head starts!” He tried to cry back, but Bed was far gone, Criken’s voice already lost to the howling winds.


End file.
